My Name is Whitney Miller
by Akenaten
Summary: Takes place during/after Friday the 13th 2009. Whitney Miller tries to deal with the aftermath of her traumatic experiences with Jason Voorhees.


Prologue

Disclaimer: This story is based on the characters from the 2009 Friday the 13th remake. All copyright rights, etc., are owned exclusively by Paramount Pictures, Platinum Dunes and New Line Cinema. I am not making any money from this. I also wanted to express my admiration of Derek Mears' awesome portrayal of Jason in the remake and it was that performance that inspired me to write this fanfic.

Author's Note: This story begins two months after the scene in the barn where Jason dies and I am disregarding what happened the next day at the dock. Also, it's hard to tell if it was an organ or piano in Jason's house so I made it a rare Bosendorfer grand piano.

This fanfic is rated M and contains the following: violence, M/F, N/C content. Just so you know, this is NOT a romance. Please leave some feedback as I'd love to hear what readers think about this story!

My name is Whitney Miller. I have to keep reminding myself of that because I don't know who I am anymore. The reason? Because for forty-two days and nights, I was tortured and brutalized by the sadistic, misanthropic son of Pamela Voorhees. As odd as it may sound, Jason saw me as both his mother and me. Kind of like a twisted Madonna/whore thing. As long as I wore that locket, I was Mama Voorhees: safe and inviolate, and subsequently free from violation. When he took it off, I was Whitney Miller, a woman whom he could torture in any way he pleased, for the simple reason that he could. And did.

I'm not some badass slasher movie heroine like Laurie Strode or Sidney Prescott who survived impossible odds but like them, I too was the Final Girl, the last one standing after going toe to toe with the masked, deranged serial killer. The only reason why I'm even alive today is that I have a brother who never gave up on me…and also my extreme bad luck in being the spitting image of the mother of a machete-wielding psychopath. My resemblance to Pamela Voorhees is the only thing that saved me from immediate slaughter at the campfire, but led me to experiences I wish to God I hadn't survived.

Going camping to harvest that goddamn weed on Wade and Richie's yet another get-rich-quick scheme is what started all this and I agreed to go because Amanda hadn't wanted to be the only girl on this trip. And my mother suggested it. In less than four hours from our arrival at that cursed place, all of my friends were dead. And the next forty two days set off a chain of events that made me what I am today: a physically and psychologically damaged basket case. I am fucked up in every way that a woman can be.

Once upon a time, I had a backbone and a smart mouth that always gave as good as I got. Now, I am broken. Hard to believe I walked through life with my held high and appreciative of the looks I received from men. On the extremely rare occasions I go out these days, I wear drab clothes and shirk attention from anyone, especially the opposite sex.

Once home from the hospital, I took the last of the many scalding showers that I would subject myself to over the coming week. As before, I wrapped a towel around my chest and wiped the steam from the mirror. After every shower, I stared into the haunted eyes of the traumatized woman who stared back at me, but it wasn't until now that I no longer saw me, Whitney Miller, but the face of Pamela Voorhees from the locket. In that small oval picture, her eyes held the same agonized look of despair as mine did now; as if she would never smile or experience happiness again. What had she gone through when that picture was taken to make her so sad? Was she abused by her husband, just as I had been by her son? My eyes looked at my hair and remembered that in the past, I used to think of my copper-colored hair as my crowning glory. It was now the longest it's ever been, grown almost to the base of my spine. I ran my brush through my hair and my mind immediately flashed back to terrifying memories doing that simple repetitive action done for me that I'd forgotten until this moment. Since coming back home, I have wondered if my hair had been short, would Jason would have killed me by the campfire?

For too long, I hadn't been in control of my body or what happened to it; but that was going to change, right fucking now. I went into the kitchen and from the Henckels knife block next to the stove, removed the scissors. Yes, it was a baby step, but it was a step in the right direction: forward.

I guess I should count my lucky stars I am still alive, because as far as I've been able to discover, no one other than me has survived an encounter with Jason Voorhees. Yes I survived, but I wish I hadn't, because then I wouldn't have to deal with the senses that everyone has. I fucking hate them.

Hearing the screams of Mike as he was dragged under the floor to his death. Seeing Amanda's body in the fire and knowing I was too late, and couldn't help or be beside my best friend when she died. Trying to pry apart that bear trap that nearly severed Richie's leg and touching the sharp edges of his shattered tibia and fibula underneath my fingers. Smelling Jason Voorhees. That nauseating, reeking stench that sticks with me no matter how many times I change my clothes. It's so thick I can still taste it, so that covers the last two.

What I hate most of all are the memories of that place.

To be fair, the ones from the little cottage weren't all bad; restoring the Bosendorfer to a playable condition kept me sane. At least I was above ground, fed and had access to a shower. I was even allowed outside; albeit chained to my captor.

All of that changed when I taken—no, dragged-into the tunnels, everything about my life was the stuff of nightmares, but it was real. Even if I were asleep, my heart rate would jump exponentially upon hearing the trap door slam open and his heavy footsteps hitting the hard-packed earth, knowing damn well he was coming for me, and wondering what dark mood he would be in this time. When he was feeling particularly sadistic, he would grunt and feint a lunge at me, so he could see me cry out and shrink away from him…or he did it just to set off my claustrophobia.

If I was lucky, Jason only threw a temper tantrum. That being said, a six foot five, 220 pound man-child throwing heavy things near, if not directly at me, is terrifying in itself, as normal men generally can be reasoned with. But not Jason Elias Voorhees, because he was not a man and sure as hell not normal. If at the end of his forcefully rearranging my prison cell hadn't cooled his anger, he would storm over to where I lay huddled as far from him as I could get, bury his hand in my hair and twist until I had no choice but to face him. Sometimes his fury would dissipate as quickly as it began and he would stomp off to do who the fuck knows what. When his anger didn't subside, my treatment was…worse. Much, much worse. I scrub my skin until it cracks and bleeds, but I will never feel clean again.

To cope with my PTSD, I've started cutting myself; not enough to commit suicide or cause me to need medical attention but because I need it. By engaging in this activity, I've taken back some control in what happens to my body. Just like I did when I hacked off my hair with kitchen scissors. Some may call cutting mutilation; I call it cathartic as it lets the psychological pain and self-hatred out. Drop by drop, I watch my blood slowly drip into my white bathroom sink and down the drain and it soothes me. I like to think that each drop represents a scream or a tear that I shed because of him, and the more of myself I wash down the drain, the less pain I have to deal with.

On Clay's advice, I went back to university in hopes of providing myself with a distraction so I would forget those six weeks I spent in hell. But that didn't work out because it did the exact opposite. Me, Amanda, Wade and Mike shared some classes together and every time I went to any lectures now, I was confronted by their empty chairs.

However, as tempting it is to slice deep into my skin and end it all, I just have to remind myself not to go that far; I just need to lose enough blood to weaken me into a stupor where my guilt and my memories are quietened at last. At least enough for me to snatch a few hours of much needed rest. My therapist has prescribed a whole damn pharmacy of drugs for me and I have no doubt they would keep my demons at bay. I've filled out all of the scripts, but as much as I want to take them, I can't.

Not until I know for sure.

Music was my only solace in that awful place. I spent hours restoring the voice to that beautiful and neglected old piano. It was a respite that my mind and body desperately needed during the early days of my captivity, until everything went tits up and I descended into the bowels of Hell.

Before her cancer diagnosis, my mother was a concert pianist and she told me many times that when she was pregnant with me, she'd speak softly to me as she practiced by the hour before every performance. I listened and absorbed almost every piece that Bach, Chopin, Mozart composed and countless others _in utero _before I took my first breath. I have no doubt that's why I love music so much.

A thought came to me as I dwelt fondly on my memories of my mom: what if I changed my major from Psychology to Music? It was my strength, after all. And as selfish as it might seem, I would no longer be confronted by the ghosts that filled their empty chairs.

Since the school year was over, going back in the fall might be doable, but I have to deal with my present first.

Jason Voorhees is dead. I buried his own goddamn machete in his fucking chest. No one can come back from that. That being said, I am still terrified. In order to have the slightest peace of mind, I sleep with a knife under my pillow and I've made sure there is something that I can use as a weapon in every room of our old house, even including a screwdriver amongst the toiletries in my shower. Stupidly watching that Alfred Hitchcock movie one night when I couldn't sleep, I saw for myself that a woman is the most vulnerable in the shower as she has nothing to defend herself with in that situation, nor can she escape.

Despite all the safeguards I take, no matter how many times I check the door lock and windows, every noise makes my heart pound with the horrible thought that Jason survived and had come to drag me back.

To give my brother credit, he tries his best to understand what I went through, but since he's a man, he has no clue. But he was the only one in my corner through the worst of it. When I was released from the hospital and every night during those first few weeks, he had woken up many, many times to my screams. He never complained nor told me to get over it. Instead, we shared more quality time together during my recuperation than we ever did for a long, long time. It felt good.

It was only yesterday that he'd dared to ask. Up until then he'd respected my silence, but everyone has their breaking point and Clay had reached his.

"Whit, what happened to you out there?"

"Christ, Clay! I can't talk about it…"

Clay said nothing, but stormed over to me and grabbed me hard by the shoulders. "What did the fuck did he do to you?!"

He is the most gentle man I've ever known and for him to lose control like this to me or any woman proved how much pressure he's been through. Clay used enough strength for me to realize he meant to get answers, despite my hesitation in disclosing what he wanted to know.

I stock-still, as memories of being grabbed like this during my captivity came over me. I felt the blood leave my face and my body went cold. Less than six months ago, if a man touched me and I didn't want his attention, I'd respond with a mean left hook. But since then, I had learned the hard way that submission leads to far less harm than defiance did.

Clay realized what he was doing by the effect it was having on me. He let go of my shoulders and hugged me, being careful not to squeeze too hard. It took him several breaths to compose himself and calm his overwrought emotions. "Jesus, I'm sorry. I didn't mean…I've seen the bruises and the scratches, Whit, and I know for a damn fact they weren't self-inflicted. But these were." He pushed up my sleeve and gently ran his fingertips over the barely-healed scars of the cuts on my wrists.

"How did you know?"

He sighed and shook his head in that all too familiar I'm-your-older-brother-so-I-know-what's-best-for-you way that all younger sisters can identify with.

"It's the middle of summer in the tri-state area, remember? Ninety percent humidity and heat to match. No one in their right mind wears long sleeves at this time of year and I knew you were hiding something. I just didn't know the extent or how far you'd go. Please don't do this to yourself anymore, sis, I couldn't take it if I lost you too."

For the first time, I saw beyond my own problems and realized how my experiences affected the person I loved most in the world. The dark shadows under his eyes emphasized his haggard appearance and made me see I had no right to keep my ordeal from him any longer. I wasn't the only one who went through hell at Camp Crystal Lake.

I hadn't forgotten that Clay suffered a loss that last night too, although he's never spoken about Jenna. She would still be alive if he hadn't found me. He hasn't openly blamed me but I feel guilty just the same. Plus, he has a job and a life he should get back to.

I owe him everything for keeping the countless reporters and news crews at bay. This was the biggest story to hit New Jersey since the Lindbergh baby kidnapping and the List family murders. When all the bodies were found in the underground tunnels of Jason's lair came to light, the savagery of the kills and the sheer number of victims fed every supermarket tabloid and was the lead news story nationwide for weeks.

The families of all the victims were grateful that their loved ones were finally able to return home. But the parents wanted revenge for having to attend the funerals of their children and I could not blame them. They couldn't go after the maniac who slaughtered their loved ones because he was dead, but myself and the families of my friends and the others that Clay met at that villa have launched a multi-million dollar class-action lawsuit against the State of New Jersey and I can't wait for justice to be served. Like Amanda, some of the victims came from money and were able to hire the best lawyers America ever produced. I was asked to join their lawsuit and I didn't hesitate to add my name to the list of litigants. Thanks to my testimony at the inquest, certain residents at the south end of Crystal Lake are also going to be sued for their knowledge that they knew a maniacal serial killer lived in their midst but did nothing. Oh, they knew damn well where to walk so they wouldn't trespass on land Jason jealously guarded with his machete.

"How about a compromise: half the story now and half later?" I asked Clay. "I can't open the floodgates all at once," I offered by way of an explanation. Unable to meet his eyes, I looked down at my hands and shook my head. "It's too much. I lost so much out there…That monster took everything, _everything_ from me!" My body shook uncontrollably in a paroxysm of grief and rage that I hadn't allowed myself to show to anyone. Through it all, Clay held me in his arms and waited until my sobs stopped.

"Tell me, Whit." His voice was soft and soothing; his gentle persuasion was the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back and my resolve to never share it with Clay. Letting it all out was a balm for my shattered heart that I hadn't realized until now I needed.

Because I loved my brother and could not repay him for everything he'd done and gone through because of me, I told Clay the truth, from the time we arrived at the camp: the massacre of my friends, my kidnapping and being tied up like a dog on the end of a leash. Everything up to the agonizing, heartbreaking moment when I buried the best part of myself in Camp Crystal Lake. It had been raining nonstop that day, making it unseasonably cold and…No, I won't go there. I can't. It's too soon and far too painful to deal with now.

What came before this was the half he was ready to hear. The worst half of my nightmarish tale would have to wait until I was ready to tell it.


End file.
